


A Dove With Claws (Of Wolves, Bulls, and Birds)

by Smasma



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, F/M, Mindless Fluff, No Beta, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:22:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smasma/pseuds/Smasma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> (<strong>canon divergence/au</strong>)</p><p>  <em>“I hope to never see you again, Sam Rivers.” he spoke, but not unkindly. The opposite in fact, and she realized that she didn't either. </em></p><p>  <em>With the rough-spun bag in hand, she climbed onto the back of the wagon and smiled for the first time in what felt like years. </em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>(<strong>If Sansa was with Arya and Gendry on their travels</strong>)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drink Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a pretty awful writer, but I want to write this idea that's been gnawing at my brain. Please tell me what I can do to make this better and any mistakes! I had this posted before but wrote too fast and I didn't like the story. Now I'm editing and updating again.
> 
> All characters and locations belong to George RR Martin

_Drink, if you want to go home._

She read the words a hundred times, fear and dread coursing through her, waiting for the delicate script to disappear; to furl away and vanish in her hands; to wake up to the same nightmare.

Her fingers squeezed the cold glass in her hand, slowly warming to her touh, and closed her eyes. What could it mean? Was it another cruel trick sent from the Queen or the King? Could she dare to hope?

She opened her eyes warily and looked back at the furled paper. Even if it was a trick, it wouldn’t do for someone to find it; she wasn’t that stupid at least. She tried not to doubt that as the paper curled and blackened over the tallow candle left at her bedside, letting the flames lick at her fingers. _Let them do their worst, Robb will kill them all._ A small smile spread on her face at the thought and she found herself uncorking the little vial. Its sweet essence floated to her nose, but she wasn’t so easily fooled. Not anymore. Just because something seemed sweet did not mean it was such.

_Drink, if you want to go home._

Mayhaps it would bring her home; let her dream of living out her days in Winterfell, with Mother, Robb and Bran and baby Rickon; Jeyne and Septa Mordant and Lady; even Jon and Arya.  And Father.  Father, where his head would still be on his shoulders and not rotting for crows to peck at.

Or would it end her life for true? They could find her lying in peace and forever innocent, shaming them for what they did . . . many thoughts as such flitted through her mind these days; anything to end the torment and guilt. She could be brave this time. 

Warmth spread down her throat as she tipped the vial back, seeping into her veins to the tips of her toes and the pit of her gut and for a moment the fear was gone. It dissolved the tenderness where Ser Meryn’s mailed fist had hit her and the thoughts of things she wanted to keep at bay. A new smile came to her face as she layed back on the featherbed.  Maybe she would no longer have to guard her tongue, or see her father there, ice slicing through his neck and _his_ smile.

_Drink, if you want to go home._

Sansa Stark let her mind float free in the place that had become her prison, laying on the rich coverlet with the curtains drawn how she had come to like. She could only hope it would be kind.

Barely a moment passed before dark spots appeared on the red and gold canopy above her. As the darkness engulfed, she thought faintly that there was a shadow moving behind the curtains.

 

* * *

 

 

Words floated through her head and slipped through her like the wind. She tried to hold on to them, but they came as fast as they went.  

“Your Grace, there seems to be no injury . . ." an old man said, trailing off ". . . bruised ribs . . . lacerations”

“Little girls don’t just die in their sleep!” another hissed.

“She has no pulse or breath, Your Grace, there is naught I can do now.”

“They have Jaime you buggering twat! My _brother_! They can not know she’s dead!" she screeched, before the woman paused, taking a deep breath. "Round up any servants who have seen to her and send them to the black cells. Have her body cast to sea, and make sure no one sees, or I’ll have your head!”

“There will be no need. Your Grace. I will make the arrangements.”  a new voice spoke.

“Thank-you, Varys. I hope you’ll keep your birds quiet on the matter?”

“Of course, Your Grace, after all we can’t let little doves get away.”    

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the darkness she felt a soft rocking and lulling, her skin buzzing.   _Is this what it's like…am I dead?_   Only then a breeze picked up, lifting her hair and brought cold salt spray and she knew it wasn't so. As much as she’d wanted to be brave, dread overcame her, pulling her down, and my gods, she couldn’t _breath_.  She would drown slowly, without a word or movement, gone like she’d never existed.

"It must be scary, thinking any moment your body will sink when you aren't truly dead . . ." A voice sighed sympathetically, cutting through the dark. Lord Varys?  He knows, but will he do it anyways?  Or worse, he'd tell them and her misery would never end.  She wanted to speak, say anything, or at least open her eyes to see his face, but she could barely grasp at thoughts, much less move. "But, then again, my little birds whisper about a certain lady standing on the edges of balconies . . . did you ever hear of how I came to be?  A eunuch that is, though you might have put that down to nasty rumors." He tittered, then grew serious again. "Alas, they are true.  I was once a mummer, owned by my master, until the day came and he received an offer too good to refuse.  This new man gave me a potion rendering me powerless to move or speak, yet did nothing to dull my senses, much the same as what I gave you." He paused, as if in thought.  "I will spare you the rest of the story, Lady Sansa, and though our stories are not the same, I feel you must have felt much as I had there, here; powerless to say or do anything as you become a plaything and pawn in this game. Why must it be the innocents who suffer when the high lords play their game? I serve the realm, and the war will go on, but Sansa Stark has no place here . . . sleep, little dove” he said, as she could no longer hold on, floating away.

“I will see you soon.”

 

* * *

 

A warm glow assaulted her eyes, orange through her lids, and she almost forgot the abyss she’d been stuck in. _Had it all been a dream?_

“Ah, you’re awake.” The same voice cut off her thoughts.

_Drink if you want to go home._

She remembered. Is she finally home?  Finally free of the lions? Her eyes cracked open, slowly focusing. Wishing.  Instead of grey walls she saw a fat man in a filthy patched robe holding a brightly lit lamp, a mischievous smile revealing yellow teeth.  The one that spoke. The light was not the only thing that assaulted her eyes, she thought as she sat up, seeing boots caked in mud. But she also saw soft white hands under layers of grime, and the hint of flowers behind his sweaty smell, his plump face, and coy eyes.  It was certainly a change from the powdered face and robes and slippers, but his voice gave him away.

“Lord Varys,” she breathed, her voice scratchy, but she'd already known.

“You are a clever girl, but as you will know soon, the eye sees only what it wants to see.” More riddles, she sighed. 

_Drink if you want to go home._

This is not home, how could she have expected anything else?  Dingy wood walls appeared to be rotting enclosed the dirt floor hovel, and one window revealed the shadows of trees against the night sky. The small room bared no more than the cot she layed on and a table missing its chair. Only when Varys stooped down to retrieve a brown roughspun bag from under the cot did she notice it was missing under his largesse. His nimble fingers pulled at the drawstrings, devoid of their normal rings and finery, and pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief.

“I know, you are not home yet."  He handed her the handkerchief  “But I can give you a taste of what it once was, even if I can’t turn back time. I take it you will like this, and I am sorry to say it will be the last you’ll have in a long time, child,” he said, as she unwrapped it keenly.

“A lemoncake!” she squealed, before taking large bites and swallowing the sweet, tart cake, half chewed. A loud grumble sounded as she filled her empty belly with the confection. Why the master of secrets found deemed it necessary to find her favorite desert was a mystery to her.  Simple acts of kindness were not something she believed in anymore; everything came with a price. Though wary, a lady remembers her courtesy.

“Thank-you, my lord.”

Varys smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “The innocence of a child, even after what she has seen and endured.” he sighed.

She stayed silent, holding back the frown that wanted to appear. He had been there, on Baelor's steps and did nothing, just stood like the rest of them and watched her life be taken away.  Varys frowned, seeming to know her thoughts, but made no comment, instead pulling more from the rough spun bag: a wide strip of cloth, clean small-clothes, a nondescript tunic of greyish-brown, dark wool breeches, and a simple belt.

“I trust you know how to clothe and bind yourself?” She nodded. “Good, you will be leaving within the hour. I may not be able to hide your Tully features, but as a bastard from the Riverlands it wouldn’t be as worth noting.”

Sansa nodded, ignoring the dissapointment of no longer wearing her dresses.

“And what of you, lord Varys?” he turned around and looked at her with the mischievous glint yet again in his eyes.

“Why, little dove, I’ll keep on paddling.” With that he stood gracefully, setting the lamp on the table as he walked out of the small shack.

She could barely process it all. He’d gotten her out by making her appear dead, but why? They always want something in return, she knows that now. Yet, he was her last hope, this plan. To reach Winterfell, even if it meant living as a little bastard boy, was nothing. She quickly tore off her nightdress, now days old, and took the long strip of cloth. _Bind yourself_. She supposed she was becoming more womanly, but she’d never had to do such before, the corsets took care of that. With a deep breath, she began wrapping it around herself, tight at first, but eventually looser until she tucked the last end in. Sansa donned the small clothes, breeches, tunic, and lastly the belt at her waist. _I must look like Arya now_ , she mused, before the thought saddened her.

“I . . . I’m finished!” She called out. Varys reappeared looking pleased. “Yes, that will do, except . . .” “

What?” she asked, what more could she do? He looked at her, but more specifically her hair.

“Oh” she’d almost forgotten, the familiar weight of her auburn hair there as always. It was the last thing she had of her mother down in this Gods forsaken place. Varys reached into his patchy cloak to produce a small curved knife, reflecting orange and yellow from the oil-lamp's flame. _No, he could not mean to_ . . . but then she knew he must, what choice did she have? No boy would have long girly hair.

“Do not worry child, I am quite practiced with mine own.” he motioned to his bald head. The quip was good natured, but she was in no mood to laugh in the current situation. Tears pricked at her eyes as she turned her back to him. Sansa wiped at them angrily. No, I will not cry over hair like a child, not anymore. The cold blade touched her forehead as he gently gathered hair in his palm and began cutting, her long red-gold tresses falling to the floor. By the time he finished, her head was shorn of every hair, only a light stubble remaining and her head feeling light.

A sudden rumble and creak came, practically shaking the dingy walls, the sound of hooves hitting the ground. The gold cloaks, she thought and quickly cowered to the cot. It had all been a trick, she was so _stupid_! Joffrey would kill her this time, if the Queen didn’t do it herself!

Hands grabbed at her arms, and she looked up at Varys, mouth gaping open and closed as she tried to suck in breath.

“Don’t fret, this is the farmer you’ll travel with until you reach the group of Nights Watch recruits. Here take this.” He produced a small sealed parchment. Shaking and trying to calm once more, she took it in her trembling hand, looking at the blank seal, then back at the plump man before her. He waved at her until she put it down her shirt, and lightly tucked it into her bindings.

“And who will you be now” She thought for a moment and took a deep breath, quelling the fear in her breast.

“Sam Rivers.” Various rewarded her with a pleased smile.

“Yes, that’ll do. When you arrive, give that to Yoren and only Yoren.”

“But . . . how am I to know?”

“You will know,” he reassured, walking her out to the waiting wagon. “This man is taking you up the kings road, they are only a day or so ride’s north.”

“Thank-you,” she whispered. He nodded and smiled.

“I hope to never see you again, Sam Rivers.” he spoke, but not unkindly. The opposite in fact, and she realized that she didn't either.   With the rough-spun bag in hand, Sansa climbed onto the back of the wagon and smiled for the first time in what felt like years.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is confusing, but it's heading somewhere! 
> 
> I decided to use the Queen's nickname for Sansa. I feel it represents her better than just "little bird" as Sandor calls her (sorry shippers!) 
> 
> Please let me know how I can make this better and if it's worth continuing! Thank-you!


	2. Beer and Lace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I had to use direct quotes from A Clash of Kings, but it will change more here on out. I have changed the time-lines slightly, advancing Sansa's so she'd have experienced a lot of what happened in King's Landing, though she has not had the luncheon with the Tyrell's. I hope that clears up some confusion.

 

The night passed in near silence, apart from the occasional mumbling from the elderly farmer about silver and boys and fat oafs.  She'd even woken with goose-prickles to the long howls of wolves far away, sending chills down her spine.  With a sigh she looked up into the dark sky.  The night was clear, and the stars shined.  She wished then she'd bothered to listen and be more like Arya during their lessons with Maester Luwin.  Never did she think she would utter those words, but now she would have valued being able to read the sky like an open book.

The wagon rumbled along at a steady pace, but too slow.  Certainly they would realize something was amiss, find the vial, or something of the such.  What was Joffrey doing now? Wishing for his doll to be beaten and battered for one wrong word or look?  Was Robb on his way to get her, believing she still lived?  The questions ran in her head and she didn’t know she fell asleep until she was jostled awake by the mules stopping and the farmer jumping off.  The sky made no sign of lightening as of yet, she could sleep some more.  Her eyes closed again, but the Farmer pointedly cleared his throat.  Sansa sat up, her back cracking in protest at the hard wood she'd slept on. They'd stopped at a stooped inn.  Hot food and a bed would do me good. 

“You’ll ‘ave t’ go on your own now, lad.”  He grumbled, his grey mustache and beard twitching with each word. 

“Your supposed to bring me to the Night’s Watch recruits...” He'd been payed, he couldn't just stop here!

“I got me silver, for all ‘e knows ya’ there already,” he said “Too many comin’ down South, sayin' there ain’t nothin’ but death past ‘ere.”

“You gave your word!” Sansa pleaded, but she already knew a man's word was nothing, not like in the songs.

“Aye, I did. You can take one of ‘em mules, and be glad for that.”  She couldn't even ride properly, she thought miserably.

Without so much as a second thought, the aging man turned and headed for the inn, flicking a few coppers at a stable boy to take care of the beasts.  She looked helplessly at the young boy, no more than ten, with sandy hair and big eyes.  With a shrug he began releasing the grey mules from the wagon before handing her the reins of one, trying to ignore her continued dejected staring.  

WIth a huff, he looked toward the inn where his master was sure to be, before giving into her silent plea. “I’ll fetch ya an old saddle” he whispered

“Thank-you.” He put one mule in the stables before reappearing with a sagging leather saddle.  It was indeed old.

“Could you, um . . .” she trailed off, her face growing hot. She couldn’t saddle a horse, much less a donkey.

“Sure, must be from the city, ain’t ya?”

“Yes” she mumbled, and gladly took the reins to be on her way, ignoring his attempts at further conversation.  Holding onto the mules neck, she clumsily put a foot in a stirrup and pulled herself atop.  _Well, this is different_ , she thought, missing the comfort of riding side-saddle like a proper lady.  _I’m just a bastard boy, now, I can survive riding this old thing._

Sam took one last look at the little ram-shackle inn before riding away onto the dark road.

 

* * *

 

The going was slow, that much was sure, and she’d nearly fallen off the little grey thing five times.  The smooth rocking kept lulling her into an exhausted sleep, but she kept on, snapping awake each time.   _I'm going home_ , she reminded herself to keep pushing through the night. 

As the moon crossed the sky, the woods cleared into meadows and farms, even a small town.  Not many were on the road, and even less in a market the road passed. With an empty belly, she imagined the foods they'd have on the morrow.  Food could wait until she was safe, she'd gone days without any in King's Landing.   _And then the king burst into my room and the beatings began._

Some of the men passing had a queer look to their eyes, like black pits.  If she was in a dress, it would only take them moments to drag her down, and she was suddenly glad for her scratchy tunic and thick breeches. The mob in flea-bottom had taught her as much, the three haggard men ripping at her dress and small clothes, unlacing their own before the Hound had saved her.  Bile rose in her throat at the memory, and she tried not to think on it more.

Soon enough the first rays of light made her path clear.  It was a sight to see: the sun glowing orange as it rose over the horizon.  Birds chirped and the forest came to life. Sparrows and jays and some she didn’t recognize flew about. One made the sweetest of melodies, though to Sansa it almost sounded sad, with white feathers tinged blue at the tips.  When the road slowly gained more people, all moving south like the man said, she no longer paid attention to the pretty little things, and instead her growling stomach. Farmers were at work already, but one orchard seemed to be empty.  Seeing the apple-ladden trees made her stomach protest louder.   _Maybe one apple_ . . . leading the little mule to the picket fence, Sansa hopped down clumsily.  Her legs nearly collapsed under her.  They'd gone numb while she rode, but now the pricks returned.

“You’re not thinking of stealin’ some of our apples, are you?” A man spat behind her.  She stumbled trying to turn around.

“N-no ser, just resting.” Sansa lied meekly

He eyed her warily, looking past his hooked nose and small eyes.

“We’d enough lil’ boys stealin' our apples with that damn crow.”

“A crow . . . like the Night’s Watch?”  His spit narrowly missed her foot

“Aye, bunch of thievin' murderers, what’s it to you, boy?” He leaned closer and she could smell his foul breath.

“How long ago did they pass?” Sansa took a step back toward her little mule.

“I ain’t gotta be answering no questions, now move on!"

The look he gave sent chills down her back.  Was one apple worth so much?  His eyes burned into her as the mule went on its way.   _Maybe Varys had left her some food_.  She rummaged her hand through the rough bag and felt a small hard loaf.  It was dry and scratched her tongue as she tried to chew it, but she ate it nonetheless.  Though an apple _would_ have been nice.    

The higher the sun rose, the thicker the traffic grew. All day they passed:  little children, thin as reeds, old folks as well, girls with babes at their breast, others with donkeys or mules like hers, or even wagons like the old farmer.  They all went in the same direction, many looking forward with hollow eyes, others warily telling her she was heading the wrong way.  How could they be like this?  Where are their lords?  She knew the small folk did not have the same luxuries, but the people, the children, we’re starving.  Guilt hit her.  Maybe she was as ignorant and naive as the Queen loved to say. Her eyes trained on the rode before her, trying desperately not to look at the poor people, though she supposed she was one of them now. _But not truly, I'm still Sansa._ A woman was yelling as she went down the road.  Bloody feet dragged along, as she pointed at her with bone-thin fingers.

“Fool!  They’ll kill you, fool!”  Sansa turned away and kept going.  Her father would never let the realm's people continue like this.

Soon after, mounds of dirt on the side of the road began appearing, some even had crystals.  She wondered what they were, but when she realized she wished she didn't know.  _Graves_. They’re all graves.  Some were small where children or babes were buried, others long and thin where the people likely starved.  They grew in frequency, soon it seemed like whole villages were buried under the ground.  Tears threatened to spill at all the lost lives, but she gulped the feeling down.   _I am steel, inside and out._

 

* * *

 

 

The horrors had continued until the day turned into night.  Lacey, as she'd decided to name her little mule, had grown impossibly slower.  Sansa had to admit she knew not if the mule was truly a girl or not, but the thought comforted her. They were both exhausted and in need of food and water.  Sansa became afraid the poor thing would collapse under her, so,  when a faint light appeared at the end of the road, and the sounds of livelihood grew louder, she had to stop. As she continued forward with renewed effort, and what appeared to be in Lacey as well, an ivy-covered inn appeared, the smell of soap and ale and stew flowing to her nose.  It was then that she noticed it didn’t have only a few patrons as the stooped inn did, but was practically bustling with activity. If they both weren't about to collapse, she would have continued on seeing how crowded the inn was.

With a light hand, she rustled through the pack finding only crumbs. No coins were to be foun.  For a lord so fond of riches, one would think Varys could spare a few.  With a deep, calming breath, she could only pray she would reach this Yoren soon.

Her mouth watered when she saw men and boys milling about with bowls of stew. Maybe _they’d give me a bit for free_.  

Her mouth watered when she saw that the patrons of men and boys milling about held bowls of stew. With no money, Sansa hoped they’d be polite and take pity.   Once she reached the left edge of the clearing before the brick tavern, she saw the outhouse and horse shack was filled, and so she dismounted Lacey, all the clumsier, and tied her to a tree by a patch of long grass.  Walking faster towards the inn, she noticed a bathhouse as well.  Men were lined outside waiting to for a turn she wished she could take as well.  Never had she gone so long without washing, except for the long travel south from Winterfell and after Baelor's steps.  It was different then, she still had dresses and maids, even if they were the Queen's spies.  At least in King's Landing she had the choice, and for the thousandth time she felt foolish.  Now she wished for a hot bath with oils, to have her hair washed.  She couldn't have either for a long time. 

Several wagons sat laden with food, probably heading south.  One had a cage on it, and when Sansa looked closer, she noticed it held not animals, but men.  Three to be exact.  _Why are they in cages?_   Attempting to avoid it did not allow her to to escape their attention.  One, fatter than Varys himself, hissed revealing sharp teeth.  The other had no nose and leered openly at her, licking his lips.  She walked through the shudder, but couldn’t help but look at the last, and to her surprise, he was handsome with dark hair on one side and light on the other.  His features were exotic and he looked at her curiously. Why he was with the other two, she did not want to find out.   

She continue to the inn and began reaching for the door when it burst open, a small boy with dirty dark hair stomping out angrily, muttering something as he stalked off kicking dirt and a rock.  The boy seemed familiar, though she did not know how.  The handsome prisoner called him over and the boy went.   _He must have some courag_ e, for she would not wish to talk to them if it meant her life.  There was something off in the way he looked at her, so calm as if he knew everything she thought and did, and though it wasn’t menacing she wouldn’t trust it.

She looked away from his odd eyes and steeled herself to walk through the door. Taking a deep breath, her hand grabbed the worn wooden handle and she walked into the warmth and light.  It was cheery; she didn't know why she had been afraid, but when she saw the many _men_ around she remembered.  None of the boys by the door spared her a second glance, though, and for that Sansa was thankful.  They were too entranced in the heat of the fire, conversation, and _pies_. Hot pork pies and mead and baked apples.  Even the boys at the table to her right were talking heatedly about them.  At least, one was. 

"You see, the gravy just isn't right."  The portly boy dipped his fork into the pie and let the chunks of meat slide off.  Next to him, the boy he spoke to just made a noise of disinterest as he ate, his staw-like hair going into his eyes.

"It's too thin, and you have to have good gravy for a good pie."  He continued playing with the food while she just stared hungrily.

"P-pardon me, but if you aren't going to eat it..." for a moment she didn't think they heard her, until he suddenly looked up.

"Of course I'm going to eat it!"  He said, as if it was the greatest crime not too.

"And who are you?" The boy next to him questioned demeaningly.

Sansa hesitated "I-I'm Sam R-Rivers-" 

"Look, he stutters!" He nudged the other

"Can I have some pie? I'm frightfully hungry," she said, before adding a quick "please."

"Get your own!" She gave a sharp look to the blonde boy.  She wasn't asking him, why did it matter anyways?

"I bet he already ate what Yoren gave 'I'm and he just wants more!"

"Yoren?  You're the Night's Watch recruits?" She wondered aloud.

"Who's askin'?" a faintly familiar voice spat out behind her.

Sansa turned around quickly.  He had a cloak of faded black, and a dirty black beard.   _You'll know it's him._  Yoren.  Hadn't father spoken to him?

"Cat got your tongue, boy?" Yoren asked impatiently.

"I-I was hoping to join the recruits." He eyed her warily. _The parchment!_  Sansa quickly felt along her breeches and finally remembered it was in her bindings.  The two teasing boys gave her an odd look and she stuck her hand down her tunic and pulled it out.

Yoren furrowed his brow, fingering the seal on the parchment.  His frown deepened as he looked her over, and seemed as if he would ask more, but instead called out "Get him pie and beer, too," to the apparent inn keep.

Sansa sighed in relief, and sat against the wall, waiting.  When the inn keep returned she gladly took the food and drink with a murmured thanks.  The pie was glorious, though she supposed the fat boy was right. After a sip of the ale she wrinkled her nose.  Wine was ever so much finer, but she drank it anyways.  Bite after bite, she ate the pie until it was all gone and decided to search for some of the baked apples she’d seen earlier.  As she sat up the inn went silent, and for a moment she thought she’d done something wrong before they heard a shout from outside.

“You the ones left to take the black?”

Yoren stood quickly and went to the door.  She peered out the window and her heart stopped at the familiar armor.  A gold cloak jumped off his horse.  “I have a warrant for a certain boy—“ Her world came tumbling down. She felt like she would retch. _They knew, and now they'd never let her go.  
_

Yoren walked out.  “Who is it wants this boy?” The door shut behind him.

The inn remained quiet, but she could still only hear bits and pieces of the conversation.  She hid beneath the window, but couldn’t help peeking over the sill, and sent a quick prayer to the Seven that Yoren did not know who she was.

The leader of the Gold Cloaks pulled out a sealed warrant, the golden wax reflecting light as Yoren took it.

“Thing is, the boy’s in the Night’s Watch now.  What he done back in the city don’t mean piss-all.”

The Gold Cloak didn’t seem to care.  Lacey...could she escape unnoticed and ride away?  But where would she go?  They had destriers, a little donkey could never outrun them. There was no way out.

The officer pulled out a shortsword, and Yoren nearly laughed.  Another gold cloak pulled his sword, before some of the recruits began standing.  One pulled out a pitchfork, another a hammer and soon all the men were pulling weapons.  _Why would they fight for me?_ She’d only just gotten here, and the boys she talked to already didn’t like her. A naked man stepped out of the bathhouse and if weren’t for the tears threatening to spill she’d likely have blushed.

The Gold Cloak with a crooked nose turned round and laughed again.  She saw the little boy that’d nearly knocked her over earlier jump out from behind a hedge, a small, thin sword in her hands.  _It looks so familiar_ , Sansa thought. _He_ looks familiar. This just seemed to amuse the man more, and the first looked at the boy.  “Put the blade away, little girl, no one wants to hurt you.”

This just seemed to amuse the man more, and the first looked at the boy.  “Put the blade away, little girl, no one wants to hurt you.”

A girl?  “I’m not a girl!” the little one yelled angrily in a shrill voice.  Maybe it is a girl . . .

“I’m the one you want.” He said. _She_ said?  But it was wrong, all wrong!  They were looking for Sansa, not a little orphan, why would they think so? 

A tall handsome boy stepped behind the tiny one with a sword in hand, and the Golds Cloak motioned to him.

"He's the one we want."  Her breath caught in her throat.  If he was the one they were looking for, it meant she was safe.  Guilt filled her.  How could she wish someone else bad will?

Yoren’s blade went to the officers throat when he was looking a the boy, and after a few choice words, the mans fingers let loose on his blade.  The rest sheathed their's.

“You’d best scamper up to that wall of yours in a hurry, old man.”  the gold cloak said, loud enough for all to hear. “The next time I catch you, I believe I’ll have your head to go with the bastard boy’s.”

With that they left she let out a shaky breath. They all watched them ride away until Yoren turned around, shoulders slumped. He told them to get moving, they’d be riding all night. Sansa gulped down her tankard and coughed a bit when it went the wrong way before heading out of the inn.  Outside, she went to Lacey to prepare for the ride when she overheard Yoren.

He was speaking to the little one who had the thin sword and the one the cloak's wanted.  Walking towards her companion, she felt a hand grab her shoulder, and couldn’t help the yelp of fear she made turning around. It was only Yoren, she reminded herself, as he pulled out the paper she'd handed him. “Now why’d you come along with a pretty paper just before them, boy.” He paused, looking at her expectantly.

"I-I don't know, ser."

"You best hope it was a coincidence, boy.  I don't need no more bloody ribbons." Yoren spat.  It seemed to be his favorite expression.

He quickly unsealed it, breaking the clear wax.  His expression changed while he read, his face seeming to drain color.  When he looked up, he seemed much older.

“Another damned Stark.” he mumbled, and she strained to hear “. . . I have someone you’ll be wanting to see, _boy_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you like it. I really appreciate comments, constructive criticism and all that. Thank-you!


	3. Dogs and Bulls

"Don't see why no one wants neither o' you," Yoren said, "but they can't have you regardless. You ride them two coursers. First sight of a gold cloak, make for the Wall like a dragon's on your tail. The rest o' us don't mean spit to them."  

"Except for you," Arya pointed out. "That man said he'd take your head too."  

"Well, as to that," Yoren said, "if he can get it off my shoulders, he's welcome to it."

Yoren breathed heavily, his twisted shoulder sagging as if a great weight were upon him. At his last word, he turned away from Arya and Gendry, taking newfound attention in a tall passing boy that Arya had not seen before tonight.

He stopped the boy with a hand on the shoulder, and the gasp the poor thing uttered could be heard feet away.

To her and Gendry’s surprise, Arya giggled at the scene. The boy looked so affronted; like he’d done something wrong and was caught by a chastising mentor. His face brought to mind one so similar, though it must only be the light: A girl with long auburn hair tittering from their mischief, stealing lemon cakes after supper. Regular occurrence for Arya Underfoot, but not Sansa. It was the only time, _well one of the only_ , that Arya got caught, but when her mother turned Sansa around, her look of surprise and such utter guilt and fear had sent Arya doubling over and laughing uncontrollably.

“You all right?” Her friend nudged her, a laugh escaping him as well, oblivious to her reason.

A few more giggles passed her lips at the memory, before reality came back to her. Too quickly she changed from laughing to pushing her teeth into her bottom lip, and grasping the cool handle of Needle. _Direwolves don’t cry._

“Arry, boy, come with me to fetch some wood.” She looked up to see Yoren calling her, the slightest tremble in his voice.

It was odd for him to have her fetch things with him, but she wasn’t looking to be whacked with the stick again and she was pleased to have a distraction.  Gendry seemed to think it off too, but he stayed where he was.

Yoren briskly led her and the tall boy to the edge of the forest, whom she now saw was willowy as well, on the south end of the inn. For a moment there was an awkward silence; the boy studying her, Arya trying to ignore him and staring at her dirty shoes to keep from snapping at him, and in the corner of her eye, Yoren looking warily around. The composed crow’s uneasiness soon made her nervous as well, until she was practically hopping from foot to foot.

“Arry,” He finally spoke, prompting her to look up. “I’ve explained this to you already, but I will repeat this again.” He looked from her to the other boy. She opened her mouth to ask what, but he interrupted her.

“Neither o’ you talk ’til I’m done, that clear?”

Her mouth snapped shut and she nodded at his grave tone.

His voice became hushed. “You got a long way to Winterfell. Thirty rapers and thieves I got me, all the picks o’ the dungeons your Lord Father gave me.” He didn’t pause and she simply stood in shock. He was saying this in front of the boy, but he wasn't just speaking to her.  The lad seemed frightened as well, and soon turned to look at Arya.

Blue eyes met hers as Yoren kept speaking, but she didn't hear him any longer. It was her mother that stared back into her eyes. Robb, Bran, and even baby Rickon; Tully blue eyes clear and bright. She knew then why the memory of her perfect sister was brought by this boy’s expression, for only the same person could replicate it so. _Sansa_. A beautiful face no boy her age would have, and her once great locks shorn down to sheer stubble. _Family_. And she wanted to cry now more than ever.

“—so keep water to a minimum. First sign o’ them cloaks, you two and the bastard get north.” Yoren finally finished. No nods or recognition was sent his way, to which he seemed to understand.

He no longer existed to the lost pack, only them. She waited for _her_ to speak. Desperately waited for her to utter a word, to show this was true and not a dream, to not have her hopes ripped away.

“I thought I recognized that sword.” _Sansa_ whispered.

“I thought I recognized the ‘lemon-burglar’ look.” Arya said, almost shyly.

A grin broke out on her sisters face, and soon she felt warmth spread through her that long been forgotten.

“That was only because I thought it was your hand on my shoulder!” Sansa giggled and Arya joined in, at the impossibility of it all. They teetered off to silence and both looked at each other once more, feet apart.

“I missed you,” her sister breathed so softly, hesitantly, that she almost thought it was imagined.

Arms linked as Arya threw herself, hugging her sister who was soon gulping and hiccuping at the air, tears wetting her matted hair as silent sobs wracked through Sansa. A year ago, Arya Stark would have stuck out her tongue at the prospect, and Sansa would have feigned a sound of disgust, but she couldn’t have imagined doing such now. They were the only ones in the family here…the only witnesses to the vile atrocity committed against the Starks.

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

 

* * *

 

They rode all night. The others were exhausted, though clean and fed.  Arya rode like in a waking dream.  She did not sleep, did not dare.  For the thousandth time she looked over at Sansa, still asleep on the little donkey she’d aptly named Lacey, though Arya kept from telling her it wasn't a girl.  The short reins were slack in her clammy right hand where she was trying to keep her sister in line with her. Even so, she couldn’t ignore his eyes as they burned into her.  Why can't you just shut up like the rest of them?  But then again, with the gold cloaks after them, she couldn't sleep either.

"What?" She snapped at Gendry.

“Who is he?” He asked for the millionth time, riding his courser beside hers.

"Why were the gold cloaks after you?" Arya shot back.

He looked away, his brows furrowing and his lip twitching downward.  "I already said. I. Don't. Know."  Clumsily, he kicked his courser forward and away from hers, a red flush coming to his cheeks. 

 _Finally_. She didn't like being mean, but she didn't have answers yet, didn't want to keep deflecting.

Eventually she dosed off as well, only to snap her eyes open and frantically look around for Sansa.

The night continued as such, with Gendry returning to lead both mare and mule.

 

* * *

 

The mob moved forward like the sea.  Screaming and yelling with faces twisted in misery.  She tried to tell them it wasn't her, she'd done nothing wrong, but their hands reached and grabbed, ripping her away.  "Help," she cried "Father! Robb!” Someone.  No one listened as she cried and screamed.  Pulled down onto the hard cobblestones, they engulfed  her in the swarm.  Kicking and tearing, they attacked, their faces morphing into Ser Trant and Boros.  Then, blood poured from them, like cascading ribbons, red like the Lannisters, and strong arms pulled her up. High, high away, a hero from the songs, though no one would sing of a face like his.  

Sansa snapped awake, forcing air into her lungs.  Instead of a snarling Hound, blue eyes stared into hers through messy raven locks hanging down.

“S’alright” he said adjusting her in his grip.  “We’re making camp. You’d been asleep all day.”  Men were preparing to sleep, setting out furs, and it was just turning to dusk.  

"Where is Ary-"

"Right here" a voice quickly cut her off before she could finish the mistake.  Arya sat on some furs she was being carried to and gave her a knowing look.  Seeing her there, steel grey eyes, short dirty hair, face, and every other part of her, nearly took her breath away again.  Sansa never thought she’d be as glad to see her again. She wanted to pinch herself to see if she wasn't dreaming of handsome knights and lost sisters, before she remembered there was no such thing as good knights. She looked back up at the boy. He was the one the gold cloaks wanted.  She wondered what he’d done for the Queen to want him . . . he looked so familiar; fine straight nose, high cheekbones, and square jaw.  He caught her staring and his lip twitched upward as her face grew hot and she blinked. She could have sworn he’d turned red as well.  The moment was gone in an instant as he set her down gently.

“Sam, this is Gendry.”  Arya said next to her “He’s . . . my friend.”  Arya, she almost tisked, always making friends with those you shouldn't.  Just like that butcher's boy. Before she could feel the familiar guilt twist in her stomach, Sansa cleared her throat. 

“Thank-you. Gendry.”

“S’nothing.”  He smiled.  Gods, it just made him look all the better.  She tore her gaze away and looked at the camp.  They were settling down with no fire, eating dry sausage and bread, and Yoren drinking from a wine-skin.  She must’ve slept the whole day, yet she was still exhausted.  Soon Gendry left to get them the same meager fair.  Arya and she sat in silence, still afraid to speak more than a few words. 

When he returned, she couldn't help but blurt out “Why did the Queen want you?”

Arya looked up curiously as if she’d been wanting to hear the same.  The loud question even brought the attention of two other boys, who she soon realized were the two from the inn.

Gendry bristled and looked down, his face growing red.  “I didn’t do nothing to no Queen.” He said angrily. “I was just an apprentice until Master Mott sent me away.”  The last note of his voice had turned soft.  He got up and went to a rock and pulled out a large shiny thing.

“I bet he’s that traitor’s bastard,”  The boy with straw hair cut the silence.  “The one they nicked on Baelor’s steps.”

She felt as if she’d been slapped.  She was used to such things being whispered.  Used to responding in agreement, but an orphan boy?  Before she could reply, Arya yelled hotly “He is not!”

“And how would you know, Lumpyhead?" the boy waved his green-tinged hands toward her.  "You're no better than Stutterer," he motioned to Sansa. "Bet you're makin it up just like him at the inn!"

Sansa's fingers twitched as she looked at the mean boy before her. In place of straw-hair she imagined it a golden blond, with malicious green eyes. 

"I think I know more than the likes of _you_ , someone who can't even remember names!  Is that why you have to make gods-awful nicknames for everyone?"

Arya laughed and even the fat boy tried to stifle one.  The straw-haired boy looked affronted and stood up quickly, stalking off with his fat friend soon trailing behind.  Gendry had looked up, trying to hold back a smile.  He still seemed to be holding onto her question, but she understood what being hunted felt like.

“What’s he polishing?” She leaned towards Arya while she whispered.

“It’s a helm he made, a bulls helm,” she answered, looking at him with awe.  “He’s talented, but I’d never tell him that.”  

Sansa pursed her lips, of course not, Arya wasn't like other ladies.

That night, on the cold hard ground with her sister in her arms, she slept better than she ever had on a featherbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to comment! Constructive criticism is much appreciated!


	4. Salt and Copper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning! Dark chapter, beware!

Every morning and night she woke to arms surrounding her.  Her eyes would crack open, sometimes to familiar blue eyes, or a face so serene in sleep, it was as if they were still in Sansa’s bed...In Winterfell.

It was the only thing that allowed her to return to sleep after waking to the smallest sound, left hand flying towards the familiar pommel of Needle. Some of the shock wore off as she grew used to sleeping and waking with someone there, but she always checked if she was still dreaming. It seemed too good to be true; to be back bickering with one another, yet the impending presence of the gold cloaks told the truth of the matter.  

Moments of silence were prized, it was as if nothing mattered for those few short moments, where in that small time she could forget they were being hunted like dogs, or that they were so very alone even surrounded by 30 others. She could listen past the snores and hear the forest come to life and imagine she was back there, with the scary-faced tree and still black waters.  She could hear Sansa's soft breath and if she listened just right, the breaths of the other four around her.  Yet all too soon, as was every morning, Yoren broke the short reverie.

Men and boys alike would stand and ready for the day, rolling furs, gathering pots and pans used the night before. By first light, the group would move, but not Arya and Sansa. The two ‘orphans’ would wait until the last orphan or man moved before them, and make water in the woods. They had only done it thrice before, but it seemed routine now. It earned queer looks from Lommy, Hot Pie, Gendry, and the few others that noticed, but waiting a whole day for relief proved more dangerous.

Sansa had tried to do so, but she wasn’t like Arya. Sneaking through the trees above the boys was easy for her, but Sansa feared the heights, and lacked the grace she held on the ground. Arya took joy in the fact that she was better at something she was not, but Sansa would just scoff and say "it isn’t ladylike" anyways.

Mornings thus had become the usual, to which Yoren seemed to prefer, since a fateful night when Lommy and Hot Pie had watch. Arya had tried to show Sansa how to climb. Hand over hand, she swung herself up the branches. If they could make it to the top, they could travel leagues this way, she liked to think. Sansa winced when the bark cut her fine little hands, but seeing Arya’s smirk, she kept going. Sansa did reach the first branch, she had to give her that, but she clung to it like she was at the edge of a ledge. Arya guffawed, forgetting about the boys, and taking full enjoyment of the sight. When Hot Pie suddenly yelled “what i

They hadn’t tried since, now that Sansa was named Sodden Sam by Lommy and soon even Rorge in shackles. It may have been funny, but Arya didn’t dare call her such unless she annoyed her. It helped in a way, now the orphan boys thought her need for privacy was out of embarrassment.

 

* * *

 

 

“I hate it,” she complained one morning as they walked further in the woods, away from the sounds of creaking wagons and the recruits. “It’s bad enough being called Sam, but now this?”

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Arya pointed out, kicking a pinecone. “I thought ‘Arya Horseface’ was bad until Lommy named me ‘Lumpyhead.’”

Sansa looked at her, her auburn eyebrows drawn in the center and a frown on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she looked down.

She swiped hair out of her face. “For what?”

“I didn’t realize how bad it was… being called names and all.”

She scoffed and kicked the pinecone, harder.

“You know I never meant it right?” Sansa said quickly.

“Of course you meant it! Everyone thought so!” _Is she mocking me?_ “Theon, Jeyne, they all called me Horseface. I’ve always known I wasn’t as pretty as you, everyone made sure of that!”

She stomped away angrily. Sansa could make water on her own for all she cared, and get caught while at it. She wiped the tears forming at her eyes angrily. Calls of her name followed behind, so she walked faster until she was running. Maybe what she lacked in looks she had for brains, she thought, _at least I remember to call her Sam, and can tell the sex of a mule_. She ran until she hit the trail, and then ran towards the speck Yoren’s group had become.

As she neared, she even allowed herself a small smile at the familiar sight of shaggy black hair bouncing at each of the courser’s steps. He always trailed behind the last of the recruits as well, saying he had to get away from “those good-for-nothin’ fools” who kept pecking on about the queen wanting his head. She fancied it was for her…and Sansa of course, but she’d rather not think of _her_ at the moment.

The sun shined low from the south, lighting his back on fire. The familiar clink of his helm with each swaying motion filled her ears. In each hand, he held the reins of her chestnut mare and Sansa’s _stupid_ donkey.

“Suppose I can hold on to ‘em while I’m at it,” he’d said when their regimen first began, which was coincidentally when he began trailing back as well.

“Back already?” Arya took her reins from his hands, as he stopped both to wait.

He looked over his shoulder “Where’s Sam?”

“I don’t know. Why should _I_ care?” She said too quickly. Her hands itched. She needed to hit something.

Gendry’s brow furrowed. “Got in a tiff with your lil’ friend?”

“No,” with a foot in the stirrup, she hoisted herself on the mare, kicking her forward.

“You’re an awful liar,” even in front of him she could hear the smirk in his voice.  After a bit fumbling and a roll of her eyes, he brought his horse next to hers. “Anyways...shouldn’t we wait?”

“He’ll be fine.” He quirked an eyebrow and looked back down the road. “Well, if you want to wait so bad, go ahead!” she huffed.

“Arry, if Hot Pie made him piss 'imself…”

“Fine. And don’t you go on about that, stupid.” Now she was being stupid...why was she defending _her_ anyways? Sansa never did anything when Jeyne called her Arya Horseface, in fact, she did it too!

 

* * *

 

 

Yoren and the group was nearly out of sight when she got off the mare and started to pace. Despite her best efforts, Arya was worried. It certainly didn’t take that long to take a piss… what if the gold cloaks had been behind them all along? Every time Gendry started to suggest they go back from him, she'd shake her head.

“He’ll be here soon,” she assured the fifth time, but now she was also starting to doubt that. Even Lacey seemed unsure.

 

“I think that’s him.” She looked back at the small figure that was making its way up to them, and let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

 

* * *

 

 

“Arya! Arya, wait!”

Why couldn’t she just _listen_ for once? She acted like _such_ a child!

With a huff, she lowered her grimy breeches and small clothes, letting out a large sigh, wishing for a chamberpot instead of the earth floor.

A light breeze rustled the leaves while she relieved herself. Without hair she could always feel the air now, whether cold or hot. It was different, not having the weight there, feeling a chill when the wind would pick up. The short bristles she had left made no movement, yet the rustling continued, and the sound of birds fluttering filled her ears. Her heart started doing the same.

She hurriedly pulled up small clothes and breeches, not bothering to try and clean herself. _Best catch up to Arya_. With each step, goose-prickles rose on her arms and legs.  A smell seemed to follow in the air. Not the constant rotting smell that came from the creek, or the smell of moist soil...like sweat and stink.

Sansa picked up her pace.

“Arya, you can come out now.” The light rustling stopped. “I know you’re there...you aren’t going to scare me.”

When there was no answer, she briskly turned and kept walking. I’m _just being silly_ , she told herself, but that didn’t stop her breath from quickening. She forced herself to turn around. Nothing. Only the sound of her heart thumping and her wheezing breath. _Idiot_.

A twig cracked, Sansa whipped to the right and marched towards a tree.

“I told you, Arya, stop trying to scare—“ Fluffy ears perked up. _Just a rabbit_ , she sighed,  _I’m almost as paranoid as the Queen herself_. Why was she always such a scaredy-cat? First everyone thought she wet herself over a fat boy, which she most certainly did _not_ , and now a rabbit frightened her? She shook her head and began turning around, walking into the tree...but the tree's right...She opened her eyes, and stared into dirty cloth, leading up to a man grinning with rotting teeth. She recognized that look. Her mouth dropped open to scream, but rough, callused fingers smothered her quickly, gripping tightly on her mouth.

“No need to scream, sweetling, just tryna have some fun.” She struggled.  His breath tickled her neck and her heart pounded. The stranger's other hand savagely groped her and her skin crawled.  She tried to breathe, tried to move, but only stood there.   _I'm imagining this, it's only a dream, I'll wake up..._

But the hot wetness creeping up her neck was all too real, and she realized with horror it was his _tongue_. Bile rose in her throat and she began attacking at his hand, scratching and punching. The air was knocked from her as he slammed her back into a tree.  

 _Maybe if I stay still, he'll let me go..._  she looked into his hungry eyes, and all hope was quelled.  The tears fell freely from her eyes, “Please” she begged into his hand, but it came out muffled.

“It’ll all be over fast,” he leaned closer, flashing his crooked teeth, “I’ll bet by the end you’ll be beggin for more.”

She jolted as he pressed into her, his free hand traveling down her side to her...fabric ripped and he yanked down her breeches.  She snapped her legs shut. “Please! No, no—“

“Don’t cry now, you’ll be doing it soon enough,” his voice mocked her as he shoved his hand up her tunic. “Ah, that won’t do…too pretty to be hiding like a boy.”  He started tugging at the bindings.

She pressed her cheek to the rough bark, struggling to escape the man’s grasp. He cursed when he could not undue them with a single hand.

“Better not s—“

“ARYA-A-A!” She grunted as the sharp blow to her head sent her sprawling down.

“Stupid cunt!” Black spots flitted in her vision. Head pounding, she gripped her hands into the dirt trying to pull herself away. _Think, breathe—why can’t I breathe?_ Sansa tried to scream for help.  Hands gripped her arms and held her down.

“Listen now, bitch, scream again and you’re dead.”

Cold steel pressed into her neck. She ignored it, only struggling more desperately.  She kicked and punched, but he quickly caught both wrists in one hand, slamming them to the ground, hitting a half-buried rock.  She yelped at the pain and tried to knee him, but it only left her open as his knee shoved between hers, wrenching them apart.  Her cries became louder and she felt her breeches being pulled down.

His manhood pressed into her thigh as he ground into her, groaning.  

He left her hands free, unbuttoning his breeches, as she tried to breathe.  It was coming too fast, but she couldn't get enough.   _I’m going to die_. “Stop your crying…or do I need to slit your throat? You won’t like that. Better do what I say.” She stilled.  The crooked teeth turned straight, and she only saw the same malicious glint in eyes of emerald…when he forced her up the stairs to the parapet to look at them. She took a deep breath and stopped the tears. _I can be brave…like Robb._

“No,” she whispered so softly she wasn’t sure she had spoken aloud, so she repeated it louder "NO!"  His brows furrowed as he grimaced and she was there again.  On the parapet...she no longer felt the cold weight in her hand, as she slammed it up, towards his head, and hot blood slipped down her neck where the steel was cutting. It didn’t even pinch. “You bi-“ She hit harder, feeling the sickening crunch and a scream. The knife fell from his hands and now she sat atop him, looking down at bloody hair like spun gold. She smashed the rock again, wanting it to die. _For father._ She slammed, and the screams felt like music in her ears. _For Lady._  Hot liquid splashed her arms and face, warm like a bath. _For Septa Mordane._  It mixed with her tears; salt and copper. She hit again.

_For me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback?


	5. Black and Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just remembered that when I first posted this story, I got a warning about scathing comments about Sansa and the fact that I listed her with Gendry as well as Arya, and that I received one as well. The pairings reflect relationships in general. They aren't necessarily romantic, though they might turn out to be, though keep in mind even if I rushed Sansa's timeline, I'd say they're still within a year or so of GRRM's ages, so it's more fluff and platonic than anything. If I'm going with this fic, I not only want a bit of open-endedness, but also authenticity; how would it actually be if Sansa was there? How would that change relationships, events, ect. Anyways, I'm preaching to the choir, but if you don't like it, suck it (or leave a comment, I don't mind criticism if its constructive. If not, it's entertaining anyways so I can't really complain) if you do, thank you, I love you! I hope everyone likes this idea, I really want to focus mainly on Sansa and Arya's relationship as sisters after what they've gone through and I'm gonna try not to give up on this story. Thanks again for reading!

She didn’t know how long she kneeled there, looking at the ruin of what was left of its head.

It was the smell that brought her back. _Gods, the smell_. She choked on it, thick and heavy and metallic. Looking away from where his face had been, she  looked down at herself, finally letting her hand go limp. The soaked rock landed with a thump, but she didn't notice.

It was everywhere.

On shaky legs she stood, pulling her soaked breeches back up and heaved, throwing up the dry sausages and crackers that had become her meager fair and down to dark bile that burned her throat and brought tears to her eyes. The fluids mixed with that on the body, but the blood took care of that quick enough.

She didn’t want to think about why it was like that, and how it came to be, so she turned, trembling. Each step felt like it was taking years, and Sansa no longer saw the trees around her. She didn’t know where her legs were leading her, but she walked, anything to escape that _horrid_ smell.

When she finally collapsed, it wasn’t on soft rotting leaves, but packed dirt, and _arms_.

Maybe she’d never woken up. Maybe she was still there, with the man grabbing her and doing _that_. But she didn’t want to think anymore, couldn’t, she was so cold and wet, and the air burned her throat. And so she closed her eyes tight, and willed her mind into herself.  She just wanted quiet.

 

* * *

 

 

The figure moved slow as Arya waited with Gendry, growing impatient. _What was her deal?_ she huffed. But when the willowy thing came closer, she squinted. Why was she dark? Maybe it isn't Sansa. . . and then she noticed it wasn’t dark, _no_ , it was _red_. Gloriously red and dripping.

“Arry…” But she wasn’t listening anymore, trying to not feel the dread and _fear_ rising in her, and she heard feet flapping against the ground, and only realised they were her own when she was falling, hands slipping against skin.

“Sansa!” a voice screamed, as they collapsed together.

It was everywhere.

She wanted to cry, and yell at her, if only to ignore that it was _her_ fault. _She_ left her sister, her sweet weak sister and if only she wasn't so stupid, stupid, stupid--

“There’s..how is there so much, he couldn’t have made it.” She looked up at Gendry, his face pale and hands shaking and she wondered when he'd reached them. She looked again and started trying desperately to get some of it off, but her hands only came away wet and covered with the thick blood, and she needed air.  She just. Needed. Air.

 “She’s—he’s…It’s my fault…it’s all my fault.”

“Arry…” and she didn’t bother to see if he’d heard her mistake. His face took on that pained expression. “We don’t have time for this, we need to wash ‘im and find the wound and get back to the group. The cloaks are still after us, we can’t be behind.”

Knees still on the ground, she felt the weight leave her as Gendry lifted Sansa into his arms.  She only wished he could take away the weight on the inside, too.  The dark breeches squelched, dripping some of the cold liquid onto the ground, staining the dirt red as it congealed. It couldn’t be all hers, not with that amount. But it was almost worst, what that would entail, and Arya shook with anger at herself.

“Come on, we were camped near a creek, right?” She didn’t nod, just followed him as he took big strides to the edge of the small road and stepped into the forest, deeper into its thick depths. It was quiet, eerily quiet, or was it just her? No wind, no little chirps, no birds. Except that wasn’t right, there was a bird, white and grey, was it? Just staring at them before it flew off with a quirk of its head.  She turned back to the boy in front of her, and the red legs flapping with each step, and only then she heard the whispering.

“It’s all right, you’re all right, Sam, we’ve got you, you’re safe now.” and only then Arya noticed Sansa wasn’t anymore, her eyes were open and she just stared. Arya gulped down the fear, _or was it guilt?_ and walked ahead to lead them to where the land dipped down to a shallow stream, its bottom light with sand and smooth rocks.

The two silently sat Sansa at the edge, and only when Gentry started taking off her tunic, did Arya realize what they’d gotten themselves into.

“Gendry, keep watch.” He looked like he wanted to argue, before huffing out a fine and trudging off, wiping at the stains spreadung on the arms and chest of his tunic.

For a moment she regretted sending him away; it was hard to support Sansa on her own, but she couldn’t risk it.

“Sam?” she asked, wondering if he was still in ear shot. She only blinked.

“Sansa?” and she could no longer keep the fear from her voice as it quivered and blue eyes snapped to hers.

“I didn’t mean to, he just, it just—“

“It’s all right,” Arya cooed, and when had she ever sounded like _that?_ She wanted to be relieved that this wasn't her blood, but that meant something else entirely, and she found herself wanting to look away in shame.   _Its all my fault._

“Did he—”

“No,” she said softly. And she wanted to say sorry, for Sansa to hug her and say it was okay, that she was forgiven, but she kept her mouth shut.

“Let’s get these clothes off and wash them, we’ll be able to catch up to Yoren if we’re fast enough.” She said instead.  _Calm as still water._ She could be brave, for Sansa.

Her sister didn’t nod, she just stood, legs trembling, so thin they looked like they’d snap at any moment, and unbuckled her belt. How could she not have seen? Arya went to help pull at the stinking tunic, clinging to her skin, but let Sansa do the breeches herself. She waited for her to cry, but heard nothing, and she felt bad for thinking her sister weak.

Once the clothes were off, the pale skin revealed underneath was thankfully not as gruesome as her bare arms and legs. Her small clothes were lightly stained as well as the wrap around her chest, and only then she'd noticed Sansa was growing.

With light steps, she led Sansa to ther center of the creek, just large enough to where they wouldn't have been able to jump across, and took her clothes to wash. Trying to focus on the task at hand, Arya grabbed the breeches and started scrubbing it on the bottom of the creek, a few feet down stream from Sansa so her sister had clean water for herself. She almost wished she hadn't, so she could have ignored what came down stream, the water turning dark and chunks of something along with it. She swallowed a gag and scrubbed harder, and if the water turned darker she could not tell. Next the tunic. Knuckles white and fingers straining, she scrubbed, trying desperately to remove the stains so they might forget this, but she knew it was impossible.

Once they were as clean as could get, she wrung them out, pink water flinging about, before setting them on a branch to dry for a few moments before they would be on their way. Turning back to Sansa, who’d quietly been splashing water onto her head and washing down her arms leaving light red trickles, she made to ask if she needed help, but couldn't help but stare at what she saw instead.

Bruises, quickly turning blue, ringed her wrists and when she turned her head to clean the right side of her neck Arya saw another forming on her temple and cheekbone. But it wasn’t those that stole her breath, though they made her swallow and and her throat burn, it was the others.

“Sansa…” Her sister turned to her before following her trail of eyesight and when Sansa saw what Arya was looking at she looked down and started scrubbing harder. Bruises, brown and yellow ringed her legs and arms, a giant purple one slowly fading on her stomach and under the edges of the cloth on her chest made her breathe harder. How had she not realized?

“Sansa..” she reached for her.

These were too old to have happened today, but Sansa turned her back to Arya and said “don’t” and she couldn't help the strangled gasp that escaped her traitor throat. _Her back_. Lines criss-crossed, some healing a silver-white, other still broken where bruises had been agitated. Pink and angry lines, and Arya's nails dug into her palms until she felt the chewed stubs break into her skin.  _  
_

“Who?” She asked, but Sansa ignored her, finishing wiping at her legs, and with a final splash to her face she stood, focusing on anything but Arya.

“Who?” She repeated, deathly low, almost a growl. When Sansa looked up she expected it to be meek or sad, filled with shame and want for comforting, but instead her blue eyes were ice when she looked into Arya’s grey, her lips turned white in a tight line.

“They were no true knights,” she said, and walked past Arya, yanking her clothes off the branch and heading back in the direction of the road.

Arya stood where Sansa left her and when she bit her lip, she tasted  salt instead of copper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this doesn't just turn out like shitty bathos. Thank you for reading. Please leave feedback and whether this is worth continuing!


	6. Mules and Wagons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A closer look at Sansa from her POV and some sisterly fluff before the plot moves along. I don't have a beta, so please excuse my mistakes and bear with me!

She didn’t care anymore, not truly.

All of them could make fun of her all they like, they were only orphans and criminals after all. Even if Arya would defend her to the teeth with sharp words and Gendry with an equally sharp look, it came down to Sansa to hold them back. And so when they called her Sodden Sam the Screamer, she held her head high, like the Lady she was.

It wasn’t her fault she woke half the nights screaming at dark and bloody figures that weren’t there. No matter what they called her she knew she wasn’t alone in that though, even though they might not scream as she did. Spending half the night fitfully awake gave her time to listen. Under the tree canopy and dark cloudy sky, Sansa heard whimpers among the snores, and Arya's fidgeting before she would shoot up, grabbing for their bastard brother’s sword.

No, they all had their nightmares here.

Being awake didn’t give Sansa relief though. The time passed slowly, the moon iddling across the sky and she couldn’t help but feel they were wasting time sleeping when they could be moving, making up for the tiny road and slow going during the night when the Cloaks would be resting. With wagons weak and cheap that broke constantly, not like a wheel-house that could last from Wall to Dorne, it seemed they’d never get out of the Crownlands.

With a deep breath, Sansa rolled away from the sky and to the right where her Arya lay. It wouldn’t do her good to be anxious all the time, she chastised herself, but she knew it was hopeless.

Arya looked older in her sleep, unable to do that scowl that made her look like a petulant child. Still, the night made her innocent; her eyes shut sweetly and her matted hair looking clean in the dark, hiding smudges of dirt and specks of earth on her light skin. Behind Arya, just a couple feet away, was the large figure of the bastard boy, Gendry. He fancied himself aloof, but Sansa could see through it; his using any excuse to be near the pair. And of course, Arya.

It was odd.

With how her sister acted it was Sansa that needed the watching, but Gendry seemed to understand what Arya couldn’t: that she just needed everything to be normal. The special attention just reminded her of what happened, what she’d done, and she saw enough of that at night. Sansa let Arya sleep near of course, even if she wouldn’t admit that _she_ needed her to be close, needed the calming when she woke and didn’t remember that they were finally going home. That her sister was alive.

Still, when the sun came, they were apart again with Arya acting the silent shadow, always near and always watching as they led mule and horse down the windy road with grass in the center. Sansa sighed and closed her eyes, praying for just one night of sleep. She knew it wouldn’t come.

 

* * *

 

 

“You can stop now,” Sansa said, staring forward, far past the men and Yoren’s billowing black cloak, where she could imagine the snow and grey walls of Winterfell, leading Lacey amiably slow along with the rest of the group.

“Stop, what?” Arya asked, utterly aloof. _She doesn’t fool me_.

“Following me, _watching_ me. We’re literally ten feet away from the others, and there’s more behind us. I’m not a baby, _you’re_ the younger one. If anything I should be watching _you!”_ Sansa huffed. Gendry nonchalantly led his courser ahead a few paces, though clumsily at that, giving them some semblance of privacy.

“I just—“

“Just what?” Sansa finally snapped, “I’m tired of it, you act like I’ll fall to the ground any second. I _don’t_ need you, why can't you find someone else to bother?”

By the time the words slipped out, Sansa wished to take it back. _But why should_ I _apologize?_   Arya didn’t understand when Sansa had made the excuse of falling into the creek when they returned to Yoren that day, and she certainly didn’t understand why she wouldn’t answer Arya’s questions about it too. Saying it out loud made it real, and it was enough to have nightmares of King’s Landing, the Gold Cloaks, and the thing that she’d done. Even the other recruits looked at them weirdly, and she just wanted them to stop. All their eyes on her made her squirm and feel as if the forest was closing in around her, the crowd coming back.

Still she didn’t want to ride at the end of the group anymore, even if she could barely stand all the pairs of eyes. The _cage_ was there.

Even with Arya’s odd fascination of the handsome man and Sansa’s own curiosity, she couldn’t stand _him_. Biter, vile creature he was, didn’t compare to Rorge’s look. If any of them here could recognize _those_ eyes, Sansa certainly could. The man with the missing nose was one of _them_. Those beady eyes told of suffering, though it wasn’t his own. No, it was the innocent that suffered, Lord Varys had been right in that.

“Fine,” Arya finally spat out and galloped forward.  She watched Arya ride away, but didn’t overlook the fact that she stayed within earshot and eyesight were she to turn back. That conniving little— “Sam?”

The voice startled her, her limbs suddenly scrambling to stay upright on the saddle. With what dignity she could muster, Sansa stared forward, acting as if she hadn’t heard the fat boy on the wagon nor nearly lost her balance.

“I-I’m sorry,” he hesitated, and only now did she look at him. For a moment she thought he was only waiting to trick and insult her once more, but seeing his yellow hair hang in his face with shame, she listened.

“I…I used to have night terrors too. And...well me mum, she’d hold me and sing to me.” He looked down, a sad look in his brown eyes. Her Lady Mother would do the same, singing her softly back to sleep after she'd had a scare. Only now did she wish she hadn't decided she was too old for letting her mother rock her and run fingers through her hair. He must be sad too, all alone and going to a cold foreign place. Sansa would never have deigned to speak to someone like him, or the others for that matter, not like Arya would. The names gave her all the more of an excuse, but she supposed they were pretty similar after all, and she was supposed to be one of them now too.

“What was she like?” Pudgy fat jiggled when his face snapped up in surprise, but then he smiled wistfully, looking to the sky.

“She had long brown hair, and made the sweetest pies and breads. Me mum,” he laughed slightly, and Sansa thought it endearing, “she knew ‘ow to get the gravy just right, I’ll tell you that.” Sansa smiled lightly, he was nice enough, certainly not like the other one.

“I’ve never asked your name”

“Hot Pie” he stated proudly

“Oh, I thought that was just a nickname. You do seem to love pies”

“No, that’s me name,” he laughed, “Do you know any songs?”

“Of course!” and she’d almost scoffed and said all ladies do, but stopped herself.

“What you’re going to sing now?” the green-handed one said, catching up to the wagon on foot and nearly spooking Lacey.

Hot Pie gave him a sharp look before she had the chance to ride away. “This is Lommy.”

“Pleasure,” Sansa said, though it sounded like anything but. The boy seemed pleased enough with the answer though, and soon the two were prattling on. Sansa would nod when seemed appropriate as the two orphans argued about what constituted knights and battles. It was much more than armor and helms, she wished to say, but she let them have their opinions, misguided as they may be.

When she looked forward again, she saw Arya turn quickly, but not before Sansa saw the small smile on her face. She didn’t smile much anymore, and Sansa couldn’t help but feel it was her fault. As much as she wanted to hang on to her bitterness, it wasn’t ladylike to hold grudges, so Sansa headed forward, nestling Lacey between Gendry’s dark courser and Arya’s brown. Gendry was silent as always, and Arya still brooding as if she hadn't just been spying and smiling at her. It made her look like their bastard brother, but Gendry’s quiet ways reminded her even more so of Jon, even if he didn't share his look. Were all bastards that way? Or maybe he had only like that to her.

“Gendry, may I ask, where do you hail from?” Sansa looked expectantly up at the tall boy, then gave a light “ahem” when he failed to answer. Dark eyebrows shot up for a moment, looking surprised she asked him, or even spoke to him. _Am I that cold?_ she thought, but since the day day she’d gotten lost making water, they didn’t speak, though she had to admit she didn’t speak to him much before, either. Maybe he was embarrassed, she had run into him while she pulled on her soaking tunic, and she’d nearly fainted from fright. With ears as red as beets, he’d turned around and waited for her to pull on her breeches and catch her breath. Still, Sansa couldn’t help but pry now.

“I—“ he cleared his throat “I lived in Flea-Bottom, on the Street of Steel.” She nodded, but when he didn’t speak further she asked more. “And how did you decide to become one of the Night’s Watch?”

“I didn’t,” Gendry said in an empty voice, and Sansa felt her face grow hot. Who did have a choice, as orphans and criminals? Even under the Queen’s thumb she’d had no choice.

“I’m sorry,” he nodded lightly, still looking forward. “Why were you sent away?”

He paused for a moment, a pained look on his face as if the thinking itself hurt. “One moment the Hand spoke to me, the next I was cast out,” he shrugged Arya’s neck practically snapped to look at Gendry, and Sansa would have giggled if it weren’t for the weight of his words. What could Father have wanted to do with _him?_

“Lord Eddard?” Arya asked, and Sansa frowned at how small her voice became.

“Yes, the traitor one, and the one before ‘im too.”

“He wasn’t a traitor” she growled, before Sansa shot her a look. “What? I’m not a liar,” Arya said, gaining a curious look from Gendry, though he made no amends for what he said.

If Arya knew what Sansa had done in Kings Landing, she wondered if she’d cast her out, or if she would have to see disappointment in her eyes that were so like Father’s. What else could she have done? Joff wanted to hear her denounce her family as traitors. But even as she thought it she knew she was wrong. She _did_ have a choice, she could’ve taken beatings or even death. Arya would have. She tried to ignore the shame in her gut.  

 

* * *

 

 

That night, ignoring the growling of her stomach, she turned to Arya, ready to hold each other and let the moonlight wash away their teetering silence.  As she reached out, Arya turned around feigning sleep.

“Arry?” She asked desperately, but no answer came. Sansa quickly tried to swallow the lump in her throat and hold back the stinging in her eyes, but soon enough a sob escaped. Maybe she knew that she was a traitor. She hadn’t forgiven her for Nymeria and Lady, and they had yet to talk about how she’d acted in Kings Landing before the day Ice slid through his neck. All she could think about was the honesty and malice that had been in her grey eyes when she said "I hate you."

When she heard the rustling of Arya turning over and reaching her hand out, Sansa latched on, the tears flowing harder.

“Sam, you can’t cry at everything,” She sighed, exasperated.

“You…You think me weak and-and stupid just like the Queen,” Sansa sniffled, trying not to gulp at the air. The little body scooted closer, until she was half on Sansa’s mat and they were face to face.

“I won’t lie,” she started and squeezed her lids shut “I thought so when we were young. And, well, you thought me savage, right?” She managed a nod and wiped at the snot under her nose, trying to not feel the grime coating her skin.

“You’re strong, Sansa,” Arya whispered, and when she opened her eyes, she saw her grey eyes shining in the moonlight. They were still children, she thought, _and yet we have eyes like old crones_. With one last sniff, she huddled close to Arya, holding her small hand in hers, gripping. _We’re going home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I always appreciate constructive criticism and thoughts!


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